


long hair, slicked back (white t-shirt)

by notcaycepollard



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Multi, Steve Rogers' Biceps, Steve Rogers' tight shirts, Tumblr Prompt, god bless u costumer obviously, this fic is smol and silly and i'm into it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-10
Updated: 2016-06-10
Packaged: 2018-07-14 05:15:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7155206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notcaycepollard/pseuds/notcaycepollard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Hey Sam,” Bucky says, “can I ask you a question? Why does Steve always wear such tight t-shirts nowadays? You think nobody's told him he's got muscles?”</p><p>Sam chokes on his coffee. “That is not where I was expecting this to go, okay, I, uh. Honestly, I've got no fucking idea. He didn't dress like that in the war?”</p><p>“Not except for the costume,” Bucky says dreamily. “He kept it, you know. I told him to keep it.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	long hair, slicked back (white t-shirt)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AMidnightVoyage](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AMidnightVoyage/gifts).



“Hey Sam,” Bucky says, “can I ask you a question?”

Sam has to consider this for a bit before he answers. The thing with Barnes, he's discovered, is it could be a question like “how do I use snapchat, I wanna make my face do that animated dog thing for T’Challa” or “ I read online that an entire town in Michigan is getting lead poisoning from their water and nobody cares, what the fuck, it’s not even Hydra, it’s just _everyone being assholes_ ” or “what exactly was the AIDs crisis” or “what's up with the bird costume”, and there's really no way to brace for where on the spectrum it might be. Bucky's a wildcard that way. Sam kind of suspects, sometimes, that he’s already looked up the answer, skimmed through Wikipedia, and he’s… testing Sam, maybe? He doesn’t know. It sure starts conversation, at least.

They're sitting side-by-side on the couch in the sunroom of their safehouse, because their safehouse has a _sunroom_ , and drinking frappuccinos because apparently instead of apologizing for his miscreant deeds Bucky is just gonna work his way through the entire Starbucks menu and get Sam the biggest one every time. Today it's triple mocha jelly panna cotta with espresso whip and drizzle. He's into it.

“I guess,” he says, once he's fortified himself with another mouthful of venti espresso milkshake drink. “What's up?”

“Why does Steve always wear such tight t-shirts nowadays? You think nobody's told him he's got muscles?”

Sam chokes on his coffee. “That is not where I was expecting this to go, okay, I, uh. Honestly, I've got no fucking idea. He didn't dress like that in the war?”

“Not except for the costume,” Bucky says dreamily. “He kept it, you know. I told him to keep it.”

“Yeah, they put it in a museum,” Sam agrees, and then there's a brief awkward silence, because nobody wants to acknowledge the elephant that is _and then he stole it back, and you put a bunch of bullet holes and blood stains in it, and now the Smithsonian has to display a replica._ Sam clears his throat. “They _are_ stupid tight though, huh. You ever hear how we met? He tell you?”

“Nope,” Barnes says, and pulls his hair out of the ponytail, fluffs it out around his face, stretches out more comfortably on the couch next to Sam. “Your expression says it was good, though.” Sam takes a minute to admire Bucky’s hair, just subtle-like, because it's honestly glorious now that he understands the importance of conditioner and brushing it more than once a century.

“Well,” he says, sips his drink, “I was running, just a nice run around the National Mall, my  _morning routine_ , peaceful and quiet, and then this little shit starts lapping me and giving me stick about it. And I swear to god, he was wearing the tightest t-shirt I have ever seen in my whole life.”

“Those ones that outline every muscle group so clearly he might as well not have a shirt on?”

“Yeah, that’s the one,” Sam agrees. “His _delts_ , holy shit.”

“He give you his number?”

“No, he mostly gave me shit for how slow I was, and then he showed up at my _work_ as if I was gonna fall love-struck into his beautiful arms, and _then_ he appeared on my doorstep a week later filthy and on the run from Hydra, the US government, and your scrawny ass.” Sam bumps his shoulder against Bucky’s just enough to soften that statement, and gets an answering bump before Bucky just slides down the couch until his head is resting on Sam’s thigh. Sam gives in, and pets his hair a little, and watches Bucky chase the last of his whipped cream around the bottom of his cup.

“Rude,” Bucky frowns once he’s acquired the rogue mouthful of whip, “flirting with you like that and then that kind of follow-through.”

“Right? I mean, once he got to my house I got an eyeful of him in nothing but a dirty white undershirt, and before I knew it I was giving up my exceptionally peaceful life to take on Hydra, the US government, and a possibly-fictional infamous Soviet assassin, and jeez, have I been regretting that ever since. One man’s muscles shouldn’t have that much power.”

“It's his biceps, mostly.”

“Yeah, and his pecs. But I feel you on the biceps.”

“He flexed his biceps and I crashed a helicopter into him, that's how powerful they are.”

“I bet he’s got _nicknames_ for them.”

“Yeah, the left bicep is named Freedom and the right one is Justice. We came up with that in the war, you know, that’s a fact.”

Steve, from where he’s lying on the floor, one hand over his face, makes a despairing noise.

“I can hear you, you know. I'm in the room. I've been in the room all along. This whole conversation.”

“Shut up, Steve,” Bucky says, “we're objectifying you.”

“Now where'd a punk like you learn a five dollar word like that, huh,” Steve asks, peering out from behind his hand all blue-eyed earnest disapproval, and Bucky grins around his straw.

“I read,” he says, straight faced. “I had two whole years on my own to get better acquainted with the subtleties of the English language.”

“Oh, is _that_ what you were doing all that time,” Steve says, “and here I was thinking you were just hiding from the authorities and breaking my heart with your fuckin’ absence and looking incredibly unkempt and awful all of the time in fifteen layers of baggy clothing. I can’t believe I thought you were attractive once. Back before I knew any better.”

“I’m plenty attractive,” Bucky says, all teeth, “right, Sam?”

“Yeah,” Sam agrees, and smiles down at him, maybe softer than he intends, because yeah, Bucky _is_ plenty attractive, all slate-blue eyes and knife-sharp cheekbones and a mouth so fucking beautiful Sam could write poems about it, if he wrote poems, which he doesn’t.

“ _Thank_ you,” Bucky says, “honestly, you’re pretty fine yourself. I like your build, man, it’s fuckin’ _excellent_.” He reaches up, pokes Sam’s abs for emphasis. “Also, that thing you do with your dick,” he adds, thoughtful, “that’s pretty great, I like that bit a lot.”

“You know, I liked it better when you weren't friends,” Steve sighs.

“We're not friends,” Bucky argues. “We're just buddies. Buddies who fuck a lot.”

“Hmm,” Steve says, unconvinced. “Well, if that’s the case, and you’re so convinced of each other’s attractiveness, I guess you don’t need me _or_ my friends Freedom and Justice, huh, I’ll just go my own way-”

“Hey,” Bucky protests, as Steve gets to his feet and makes to go, “naw, come on, Stevie, we were only messing, don’t up and leave on us.”

“You look comfortable,” Steve teases, “I wouldn’t want to interrupt your _buddy_ _time_ ,” and Sam rolls his eyes.

“You know how he is, he’ll use anyone as furniture as soon as you’re sitting down. Budge up, Barnes, make room for Steve,” and instead of sitting up or moving over or doing anything even remotely reasonable, Bucky just wriggles himself all the way into Sam’s lap, gestures at the now-empty spot next to them. “Holy _fuck_ you’re heavy,” Sam complains, but he’s already sliding one hand up under the hem of Bucky’s shirt, stroking his fingers slowly across the span of Bucky’s lower back.

“Yeah, well, your hands are cold,” Bucky tells him, and yeah, they probably are, Sam’s been holding an iced drink for the last half hour. Steve, still standing, looks at them with barely-restrained amusement.

“ _Buddies_ ,” he says, fond, like it’s the world’s best fucking joke. Okay, it kind of is.

“Come on, man,” Sam says, as Bucky mouths his way slowly up Sam’s throat, and Sam’s voice hardly even hitches, he’s very proud, “you gotta help me out here. I’m being attacked by a ruthless Soviet assassin. I need Captain America and his muscles.”

“ _Do_ you,” Steve asks, but he sits down, lets Sam pull him into a kiss that starts out soft and ends up filthy, Bucky biting down on the curve of Sam’s shoulder halfway through.

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees, letting Sam tug his shirt off and throw it somewhere on the sunroom floor, “yeah, we're in trouble, Stevie, we’re desperately in need of freedom and justice and your shining beacon of hope,” and Steve goes through a complicated series of expressions before throwing his head back and howling with laughter.

“Okay,” he says in the end, wiping tears from his eyes, “okay, fine, you got me, what do you want me to do, walk around shirtless all day?”

“It’d be a start,” Sam says easily. “Your shirts are so tight we pretty much know what’s going on anyway.”

“You don’t think it’d be too distracting?” Steve asks, flexes his biceps just a little, hamming it up for their attention, and Sam feels Bucky shift in his lap like yeah, he’s distracted alright.

“I think we’ll cope,” he says, more confidently than he feels, and watches Steve slowly peel his shirt up and off. “Fuck, okay, c’mere,” he says, can’t resist, and drags Steve in closer, maps out his stupid pretty muscles with his fingertips and tongue, feels Steve shiver under his touch. It all gets pretty messy after that.

They need a bigger couch. Maybe just a bed in the sunroom. It could work, Sam thinks. They're probably gonna be stuck in the safehouse for another few months, at least.

“You know _why_ I wear such tight shirts,” Steve says afterwards, smugly, and Sam raises an eyebrow. Bucky just grunts like he’s too exhausted to say anything. “To drive the peanut gallery nuts, obviously. And clearly, it works.”

“Yeah,” Sam agrees, yawns, pillows his head on Steve’s shoulder. Bucky’s already half-asleep on the other side of Steve’s chest. The sunroom is very warm, and Sam is very comfortable, and later, they might go and get more frappuccinos. For all that he complains, he thinks his life has worked out pretty well after all. He's basically living freedom and justice and the American Dream. “Yeah, you sure showed us.”

**Author's Note:**

> for a tumblr prompt: THE LEFT BICEP IS NAMED FREEDOM AND THE RIGHT BICEP IS NAMED JUSTICE
> 
> idek this was just fun
> 
> I'm [on tumblr](http://notcaycepollard.tumblr.com/)


End file.
